“Hit wuz her husband's,” explained Fortner, as her lips met firmly, as if choking down bitter memories.
“I'm givin' hit ter ye ter use ez he'd a-used hit ef he war a-livin',” she said, steadying her tones with a perceptible effort. “I'm glad thet my hands can put inter yours the means ter avenge him.”
Harry tried in vain to make an appropriate response.
“I'll clean hit up for ye,” she said to Harry, as she saw Fortner beginning to furbish up his own rifle for the next day's duties.
That she was no stranger to the work was shown by the skill with which she addressed herself to it. Nothing that a Kentucky mountaineer does has more of the aspect of a labor of love, than his caring for a find rifle, and any of them would have been put to shame by the deftness of Aunt Debby's supple hands. Removing the leathern hood which protected the lock, she carefully rubbed off the hammer and nipple with a wisp of soft fine tow, and picked out the tube with a needle. Wrapping another bit of tow around the end of a wiping-stick, she moistened it slightly in her mouth, and carefully swabbed out of the inside of the barrel every suspicion of dust and dirt. Each of the winding rifles was made clean and free along its whole course. Then the tow swab was lightly touched with sweet, unsalted goose-fat, that it might spread a rust-preventing film over the interior surface. She burnished the silver and brass ornaments, and rubbed the polished stock until it shone. When not a suspicion of soil or dirt remained any where, the delicate double triggers were examined and set so that they would yield at the stroke of a hair, a tuft of lightly-oiled tow was placed over the nipple and another closed the muzzle.
“Thar,” said Aunt Deby, setting the gun back against the logs, “is a rifle that'll allers do hits duty, ef the man a-holt of hit does his. Let's see how the ammunition is.”
The powder horn was found to be well filled with powder, and the box with caps, but there were only a few bullets.
“I'll run ye some,” she said, taking from a shelf a small iron ladle, a few bars of lead, and a pair of bullet molds. “Fur more'n a hunderd years the women uv our fam'ly hev run all the bullets our menfolks shot. They b'lieved hit made 'em lucky. Granfather Fortner killed an Injun chief acrost the Maumee River at the battle of Fallen Timbers with a bullet thet Granmother hed run fur him an' markt with a little cross. Afore the battle begun Granfather tuck the bullet outen his pouch an' put hit inter his mouth, until he could git a chance ter use hit on big game. He brot the chief's scalp hum ter Granmother.”
“I believe the bullets you cast for me will do good service,” said Harry, with sincerity in his tones.
“I'm sartin of hit,” she returned, confidently. “I hev adopted ye in my heart ez a son, an' I feel towards ye ez ef ye were raylly uv my own kin. I know ye'll be a credit to yerself an' me.”